21 Questions

by Mason Dixon

  Naturally, the crowd whooped and raised their glasses in agreement. Whether you had seven figures in your bank account or one, free booze was free booze.

  “Before we raise anchor,” Mackenzie continued, “I would like to ask a very important question.” She held her hand over her eyes to shield them from the rays of the sun. “Kenya Davis, I know you’re out there somewhere. Where are you?”

  Beside Simone, Kenya nearly choked on her drink but quickly regained her composure and raised her hand as the guests craned their heads in her direction. “I’m right here.”

  “While I have everyone’s attention, I’m going to ask you a very important question.” Mackenzie placed a hand over her heart in a gesture of sincerity. “Will you be my partner?”

  A few people gasped and, for one surreal moment, Simone thought she was witnessing a marriage proposal. Then she reminded herself Mackenzie hadn’t flashed a ring or gotten down on bended knee, two vital prerequisites for popping the question.

  Kenya looked none too happy about being put on the spot. “As I said before, I’m not a ballroom dancer.”

  “You don’t have to be,” Mackenzie said. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know. Just say yes. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  Simone finally copped to the fact Mackenzie was asking Kenya to partner up with her in the dance contest her favorite charity was putting on, not asking Kenya to marry her. She hoped Kenya would say no just to show Mackenzie she couldn’t always get what she wanted. But despite her apparent misgivings, Kenya relented.

  “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent,” Mackenzie said over a loud round of applause. “And that brings me to the other reason we’re here today. Safe Space is a wonderful organization that does amazing things for our community. Tickets for their upcoming fundraising event will be on sale today. If you can’t attend the event, please make a donation. The individuals at Safe Space—and the kids they serve—can use all the help they can get. Thank you for coming.”

  Mackenzie handed the microphone to Crystal and bounded over to Simone and Kenya through a sea of well-wishers.

  “What would you have done if I’d said no?” Kenya asked.

  Mackenzie grinned. “Picked my face off the floor and kept begging until you said yes. Thank you for not forcing me to grovel in front of fifty of my nearest and dearest friends.”

  “You’re not off the hook yet. You have to promise me something.”

  “Name it.”

  “The next time you ask me to be your partner—if there is a next time—promise me you’ll do it in a much more intimate setting.”

  Mackenzie drew a cross over her heart. “I promise. How much trouble am I in?”

  “Let’s just say it’s going to cost you a lot more than a dozen roses.”

  Mackenzie squeezed Kenya’s hand. “I’m good for it. Now dance with me. I could use the practice.”

  “You? I thought you were the expert.”

  “I’ve never been ballroom dancing in my life. This will be a first for both of us.” Mackenzie twirled Kenya in a circle as she drew her away. “The first of what I hope will be many shared experiences.”

  On the dance floor, Kenya swayed in Mackenzie’s arms as Crystal played something slow and sensual. And Simone could only stand on the sidelines as she watched Kenya begin to fall in love.

  Chapter Four

  On Monday morning, Kenya was swamped with work. She needed to schedule the next round of employee training, review a paid intern’s workers’ compensation claim that seemed more like a desperate grab for much-needed cash than a legitimate charge, and sift through the sixty-plus résumés she had received in response to the online posting for the company’s open position in the graphic design department. Memories of the weekend, however, left her unable to concentrate.

  From the beginning, Mackenzie had gone out of her way to make her feel comfortable. Appreciated. Desired. At the same time, Mackenzie hadn’t shied away from keeping her on her toes. Keeping her guessing. Kenya was still trying to decide if the surprise tactic Mackenzie had used to get her to team up with her for the Safe Space dance competition was charming, manipulative, or both. She would have probably said yes the next time Mackenzie asked, but she wished she hadn’t had to make a decision with dozens of strangers watching her mull it over. She had agreed partly because she didn’t want to make Mackenzie look bad in front of her guests but mostly because she was thrilled by the idea of spending the next month in almost constant contact with her. She was still terrified by the prospect of channeling her inner Ginger Rogers, but at least she wouldn’t be going it alone. Mackenzie would be just as lost.

  “What have I gotten myself into?” she asked herself.

  Their first practice session was scheduled for tonight, when she and Mackenzie would meet with a choreographer to go over their routine. Afterward, they planned to grab dinner. They hadn’t decided where yet, but Kenya was fine with whatever was closest to the dance studio where they were meeting for rehearsal. It wasn’t the food she cared about but getting to know Mackenzie. She kept telling herself it wasn’t a date so she wouldn’t psych herself out. Deep down, however, she knew the meal represented far more than a casual get-together. It was the resumption of the life she had put on hold while she gave herself time to heal from the wounds Ellis’s infidelity had inflicted. Not only was she moving on, she was doing it with Mackenzie-flipping-Richardson.

  Was this real? Were she and Mackenzie actually becoming a thing? The local gossip columnists seemed to think so. Kenya had woken up on Sunday morning to see her face splashed on the inside pages of several newspapers, reporters referring to her and Mackenzie as the new It couple around town. Someone had even coined a nickname for them. Just as Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck had morphed into Bennifer and Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie had become Brangelina, she and Mackenzie were now known as Mackenya. The attention felt inappropriate, but asking for a retraction wasn’t worth the effort. No matter what she said or did, people were going to believe what they chose to believe. It was the way of the world. Especially when it came to gossip. Besides, there were worse things to be called than Mackenzie’s latest bed warmer—even if the designation was not only inaccurate but premature.

  Celia knocked on Kenya’s office door and let herself in. “These flowers just arrived for you.”

  Kenya looked up, expecting to see Celia brandishing the dozen roses Mackenzie had said she’d ordered to make up for breaking their date Friday night. Instead, Celia was carrying a potted plant. A beautiful pale blue hydrangea in a container designed to look like a vintage watering can.

  “I bet I know who this is from,” Celia said in a singsong voice as she placed the vase on the corner of Kenya’s desk.

  “Why? Did you read the card?”

  “No, I didn’t have time to steam it open.” Celia plucked the card from its plastic holder and handed it to Kenya. “I’ll let you do the honors this time.”

  Kenya reached for a letter opener. “Cut flowers die so quickly,” she said as she regarded the thriving plant. “It was thoughtful of Mackenzie to give me flowers I won’t have to throw out after only a few days. I can think of her every time I look at them.”

  Except the flowers weren’t from Mackenzie. The note inside the tiny envelope she sliced into was from Simone. It said, Question #4: If you could live to be a hundred and keep either the mind or body of a thirty-year-old for the last seventy years of your life, which would you want?

  “Is something wrong?” Celia asked with a concerned frown.

  Kenya showed her the note. “Did you put her up to this?”

  “I didn’t have to. She’s doing just fine on her own.” Celia took a seat in one of the two chairs angled in front of Kenya’s desk. “Have you called Bridget yet?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? You know how much she’d love to hear all the gory details.”

  “I haven’t called her because, one, she’s on vacation and, two, there’
s nothing to tell. With a six-hour time difference between Miami and Maui, the two of us would end up playing phone tag rather than conversing anyway. We can play catch-up when she gets back.”

  Kenya had been best friends with Bridget Weaver since their days at the University of Miami, when an attempted make-out session at a freshman mixer had devolved into a fit of giggles and a bond that had only strengthened over time. Kenya shared everything with Bridget and vice versa, but she couldn’t share this. Not until she knew what this was.

  She was looking forward to spending time with Mackenzie, but she was starting to look forward to receiving Simone’s questions, too. To seeing what Simone would come up with next. Something humorous or deadly serious, but always thought provoking. She still didn’t see the point of the whole exercise, but did it really matter? She didn’t have to know the end game to enjoy the process. And if she made a new friend along the way? Even better.

  She liked the way Simone’s mind worked. Nimble, sharp, and quick to come up with a witty retort. And her passion for music was almost palpable. Her whole body thrummed with excitement when she talked about her favorite artists. The only thing Kenya had ever been as passionate about was carving out a successful career. Now that she’d made it to the top of the heap, what was left to get her juices flowing? Love? Romance? Until Friday night, she thought those things were meant for other people. Now, perhaps, she’d been granted a second chance to find both.

  “Are you going to call her or what?” Celia asked.

  “Who?” Kenya blushed, hoping she hadn’t missed out on a work-related question while she was daydreaming about her personal life.

  “Simone, of course. To thank her for the flowers.”

  “I would, but I don’t have her number.”

  “I do.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since none of your business.” Celia jotted what looked like a cell phone number on a Post-It note. “Call her and give her an answer. Because I’m already primed to hear question number five.”

  “You and me both.”

  Kenya felt an unexpected surge of anticipation as she reached for her phone. Like she was eschewing a strict diet in order to allow herself a decadent treat. If Simone was so bad for her, why did being around her feel so right?

  *

  For Simone, the worst part of working nights was sleeping during the day. It messed with her circadian rhythms something fierce. So when she had a day off like today, she ended up yawning at noon and feeling wide-awake at midnight.

  She walked to the coffee shop a few blocks from her apartment to get a double shot of espresso. If an extra potent infusion of caffeine couldn’t perk her up, nothing could. She added a turkey sandwich to her order to make sure her hands weren’t shaking by the time she took the last sip. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to read the music she hoped to write while she was out. She was close to finding the right sound for Reagan—something street, yet supple and sexy like her voice—but she needed to give the demo Dre had given her a few more listens first.

  She took a seat in her favorite booth and put in her earbuds so she could focus on Reagan’s vocals and tune out the other customers’ conversations, but her phone rang before she could press Play. She didn’t recognize the number printed on the display. She reflexively reached for the Decline button, but instinct told her to hold off.

  “This is Simone,” she said after she pressed Accept.

  “Simone, hello. It’s me, Kenya.”

  Simone’s stomach did a somersault when she heard Kenya’s voice. She hadn’t expected to hear from her so soon—if at all. “This is an unexpected surprise. Did you get my flowers?”

  “I did.”

  Simone pushed her steaming coffee aside. She didn’t need it now. The jolt of adrenaline she had received from hearing her name come out of Kenya’s mouth had managed to banish her lethargy. “So what’s your answer?”

  “If I could live to be a hundred and keep the mind or body of a thirty-year-old for the last seventy years of my life, I would choose to keep the body, but not for the reasons you might think. It’s not a matter of vanity but maturity.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Even though it was only six years ago, I remember how much growing up I still had to do when I was thirty. I was just starting to find myself. I thought I knew it all, but I quickly realized I still had a lot to learn. I still do. I wouldn’t want to be an overgrown adolescent for the rest of my life. I would want the wisdom that comes with age—without the physical ailments that normally accompany it. It would be the best of both worlds.”

  “In other words, you’re vain.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “But it’s what you meant isn’t it?”

  “Well, maybe a little bit.” Kenya laughed at being called out. “What about you? Which would you choose?”

  “The mind. I’m not looking forward to my first gray hair or my first set of wrinkles,” Simone admitted, “but I would want to stay as sharp as I am now without having to worry about senior moments.”

  “Sounds reasonable. The flowers are beautiful, by the way. Unnecessary, but beautiful.”

  “Why unnecessary? I had to get a message to you somehow, didn’t I?” Even though Kenya had agreed to answer her questions, she hadn’t given her any contact information. Then Celia had come along. She hadn’t offered to divulge Kenya’s private information, but at least she had agreed to take Simone’s “just in case.” In a battle with so much at stake, it was good to have an ally. Especially one on the inside.

  “Try email. It works faster and it’s less expensive. Now that you have my number, you could also text me.”

  Simone reminded herself to add Kenya to her list of contacts as soon as they ended their call. “What would Mackenzie say if she knew I had your number?”

  “She has no reason to have cause for concern.”

  “She’s half-Italian. She might be the jealous type. If I were her, I wouldn’t want another woman talking to my girl behind my back.”

  “I’m not her girl, and you are I are just friends, right? No strings. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes.” But I’m not so sure it’s what I meant. Simone couldn’t deny her attraction to Kenya, but could she control it? Could she settle for being her friend instead of her lover? The question wasn’t on her list, but she knew she would have to answer it sooner or later. “Does this mean I can call you sometime?”

  “I don’t see any other way to get through the rest of your list. Unless, of course, I become a barfly and stop by Azure every night so you can ply me with drinks while you pepper me with questions.”

  Simone liked the idea of Kenya becoming a regular. Of seeing her walk into Azure at her preferred time and having her drink waiting for her when she arrived. “I don’t see a problem with that.”

  “But I do.”

  “Because of Mackenzie?”

  “No, because of me,” Kenya said, suddenly serious. “You say you understand when I tell you it would never work out between us, but I don’t think you do. I think you’re hoping if you bide your time long enough, I might see the light. I don’t want to hurt you or lead you on, Simone.”

  “I’m a big girl. I know what I’m doing. If you want to be with Mackenzie, fine. I’m not trying to stand in your way. I just want to ask you some questions.”

  And hope against hope that the answer to the last one—whatever it might be—is yes.

  *

  Kenya watched choreographer and dance instructor Anton Simms demonstrate the various types of the tango. Even though he called each one out before he performed it—from Argentine to American to Finnish to contact to ballroom to nuevo—she couldn’t tell them apart. In some versions, Anton and his partner kept space between them at all times. In other versions, they stood so close they were practically sharing the same pair of underwear.

  No wonder tango is known as the dance of love.

  “The style I’m going to teach y
ou is queer tango,” Anton said. “It’s especially popular in the gay community since the rules allow dancers to break free from heteronormative standards. In queer tango, the decision of who will lead and who will follow isn’t based on gender. Which of you wants to lead?”

  Kenya was about to suggest they flip a coin, but Mackenzie volunteered before she could.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Open or closed embrace?” Anton asked. “In the open position, you’d have constant contact from your chest to your pelvis. In the closed position, you’d stand slightly apart. Beginners usually prefer the closed embrace because it’s not as intimate. Which would you like?”

  Mackenzie turned to her. “I’m not afraid of a little intimacy. Are you?”

  Kenya felt the heat from the fire in Mackenzie’s eyes. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Then it’s settled,” Anton said. “Val and I will demonstrate the routine I’ve choreographed for you, then we’ll start teaching you the steps.”

  He nodded toward one of his assistants, who pressed Play on a boom box resting on the polished hardwood floor. Acoustic guitar-driven music with a staccato rhythm filled the room. Anton and Val moved as one, their facial expressions as passionate as the movement of their limbs. Kenya and Mackenzie applauded wildly when they were done.

  “Your turn.” Anton beckoned them to move forward.

  “Do you really expect us to do that?” Kenya asked.

  “Not tonight, no. Tonight, we’ll focus on the basics—framing and footwork. We’ll slowly add in additional elements over the coming weeks. By the time the contest rolls around, you’ll be experts.”

  “I doubt that,” Kenya said.

  “It’s only eight steps repeated over and over with a few theatrical flourishes thrown in,” Mackenzie said with a shrug. “How hard can that be?”